Three weeks of wars, and Maia screaming.
These, too, shall pass.
And so they have.
She sleeps, and so do we, and once again I leave.
Consoled through it by kin, and by real words in unreal settings. Real feelings: real fears. Gentleness among the wounded.
I can laugh, and tease, and argue plays and duty. I can know desire, less damped now by despair. Beauty cuts me: sometimes I turn away.
Seven weeks with no word.
I dream of furs and fever and Maia's unappeasable screams.
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